


Let's Try It

by winter_angst



Series: Defying Gravity [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Cibophobia, Crushes, Depression, First Kiss, Inpatient Facility, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychiatric Patients, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Schizophrenia, Slight pining, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: They were roommates before they were friends, and friends before they were lovers. Of course the rules of a romance are different in a locked ward.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Defying Gravity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021366
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Let's Try It

They were roommates first and friends second. 

Long term wards tended to assist in that. The same faces every day. Today Jack had woken up before Brock and was no doubt at the drink dispenser in the dining area waiting for the Sodexo worker to turn the coffee on. It was only open from seven am to eleven am. No amount of complaining would change that. But everyone tried before succumbing to simply sucking down as much of it as humanly possible. Clint was good at it. Jack was a tea person but he saved his tea drinking for when the coffee machine was closed. The walls were hung up with artwork: watercolors done by the local manic depressive Wanda, sketches by Steve, their very own schizophrenic, and what could only be deemed ‘abstract art’ by Clint when his one-on-one corralled him long enough to work on a craft rather than flicking rubber bands at the orderly. Phil’s job was challenging, Brock thought. He didn’t know what they called what he had. It seemed oppositional defiant disorder was a dated term. Brock rounded the corner and bumped into Maria, the RN he didn’t have any qualms with. He never overheard her complaining about them. 

“Meds,” she said. “I’ll find you.” 

“I’ll be around.” It was useless to say it, they were locked in. The crazies cut off from the rest of the world. “Seen Jack?” 

“By the coffee machine with everyone else.” 

“Y’know if you extended the hours -- ”

“Over my head.” 

Brock blew out a breath and carried on into the dining room. The opposite wall was reinforced glass with grates on the outside. Brock could see the sun coming up through the bars. There was a small crowd, Steve leaning against the counter where they kept baskets of sugar, Splenda, tiny packets of salt and pepper, and stacks of styrofoam cups. Boxes of tea sat beside the drink fountain. The options were limited. Thick orange juice, apple juice that didn’t fuse properly with the heavily treated water, and the strawberry kiwi ‘infused water’ (it was the only tolerable option, pink in color and artificially treated). The worker was still filling the machine, well used to the crowd staring at him. 

Brock wondered what it was like to be the only actual sane person surrounded by those locked away from society. Those deemed incapable of keeping after themselves, too volatile, too fragile to survive away from twenty-four hour care. ‘It’s not forever’ -- that was the lie his psychiatrist told him as he adjusted his meds once a week. Steve stood taller than the rest of them, eyes keyed in on the machine. His sketchbook was kept together by twine that was checked every fifteen minutes to ensure no one had taken the twine and tried to off themselves. If someone was capable of it he was impressed. Well, actually no. Before Brock’s time they had a patient inhale water from the shower spray and that was why they no longer had shower curtains or access to the bathroom without an orderly unlocking the door for them. And every fifteen they had to lay eyes on them which stripped away any semblance of privacy. Brock had adjusted, no longer blinking when the staff saw him naked. 

The Sodexo guy finished and slipped away from the clump that surged forward. Clint went first, no one wanted to upset him before breakfast came, and with it, Phil. He took not one but two cups and weaved through bodies to pour half the bowl of sugar into his cups. He ignored the little pods of creamer all together. Wanda and Natasha were talking quietly. They were thick as thieves, sharing the same diagnosis and the fact they were the only women in the ward. Wanda had been there longest which was sad seeing as she was so young. Brock had been in and out of short-term wards, the ones meant to stabilize him after particularly bad episodes. Just when Brock thought he was getting in control, that medication cocktail was finally working, he got manic all over again. A mixed episode had found Brock sitting outside a 7-11 with a gun pressed to his temple. And that landed him here, institutionalized, no longer responsible for his own person. 

Jack finally got his coffee after Natasha and Wanda went by. Natasha’s crimson fuzzy slippers caught his eye. It was strange living life on a single floor. There was nothing saying that pajamas weren’t allowed so some days half the floor trudged along in night clothes with bedhead. They’d all seen each other in various states of disarray. Whether it was no sleep with dark bags until their eyes, when it was one of the girls crawling out of a depressive episode, or when Bucky’s PTSD didn’t allow him to leave the room and left him in desperate need of a shower. 

Jack went to the sugar and looked up at him and smiled. Brock returned it. Jack arrived after Brock, eleven months ago on the 30th. Everyone had snagged a chair, the girls tucked into the first bench and Clint had slung himself over the chair. He was a strange mix of confident and combative. He sought to get a rise out of people, not above pointing at nothing and tell Steve they were coming to kill him just to watch him dive under the table. Honestly some days he could be an ass. But other days he was an average likeable guy who was content with annoying his one-on-one. Jack went to the end of the room where a puppy puzzle was in process of being assembled and sat in the weighted chair to stare out at the sunrise. 

Brock got a cup of the infused water and joined him. 

“Hi.” Jack said, eyes still on the sunrise. 

There was a lake outside, a constant teasing torture of what they couldn’t have. Brock missed swimming. If he ever got out, he’d do that first. That and a steak. “If I swam to the middle of the lake d’ya think they’d capture me?” 

Jack laughed, looking at him. “I’m pretty sure it’s mostly pollution.” 

“That wasn’t my question, Rollins.” 

“I think they’d come get you. That or call the cops.” 

Brock grimaced. He’d been arrested before and he wasn’t too interested in sitting, handcuffed to a bench as they contacted his nonna. But maybe they wouldn’t call her, they’d just bring him back and give him a one-on-one like Clint. “Are we talking escape plans?” 

Natasha slipped over without him noticing. “I think so.” 

“Well naturally we’d all have to be in the know,” she said, reaching up to tighten up her elastic. She’d fought tooth and nail for it and they had agreed that she and Wanda could have on as long as they gave it back every night. “We all scatter. They can’t catch us all.” 

Jack smiled. “Freedom does sound nice, doesn’t it?” 

“‘s not so bad,” Wanda said, always optimistic whenever she wasn’t wishing she were dead. “I would stick with Nat though.” 

“Good choice. I am most prepared to handle the outside world.” 

“The outside world. It’s crazy to think of it that way, huh? But it’s fitting.” Brock took a drink of the water. It was a bit acidic. Brock wondered if the water came from the polluted lake. “What about you Jack? Gonna stick with yours truly?”

“As if he’d go with anyone else,” Natasha slipped out of the booth and rolled up the waistband of her sweats so they wouldn’t drag. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked looking over. 

Wanda hummed. “Nothing…” she drawled, clearly implying it wasn’t nothing. 

“What about me?” Clint asked, the blond man looking offended. “Who’s going to stick with me?” 

“You can come with us,” Natasha volunteered. 

“Morning,” a gravelly voice said and they all turned. 

Bucky was getting a cup of coffee and Steve quickly got up. He always stuck close to him. They both had single rooms. Bucky’s PTSD had more than once caused him to lash out. Steve thought his military background would keep him safe from the snipers he thought were set up on the roof. Bucky went with it. He was a good guy and Brock thought of him as the sanest of them all. His hair was growing long but the barber was due to visit at the end of the week. When Brock looked in the mirror he missed the way he used to wear his hair. Now it was deflated and hung up his eyes when he was working on the CBT worksheets. 

Breakfast arrived and an orderly passed out trays to them. The food left a whole lot to be desired. In fact calling it food was offensive. Eggs from powder, cold hard toast, a Danimals yogurt cup and a single apple. Jack took the yogurt and left his apple, a trade long since turned to muscle memory. Brock ate both apples and put the core on his tray. Jack had cibophobia -- perishable foods in particular. He had a hard time with food in general and it showed on his lanky body. He was looking at the plate with dread that Brock was familiar with. Brock nudged him along gently, trying to distract him as he ate so the fear didn’t overwhelm him. Breakfast was relatively easy for him, eating half his eggs and nibbling on the crust of the toast. They brought their trays back up and Brock suggested they go to the TV room. Jack declined saying he wanted to see if he could make any progress with the puzzle. Brock thought that sounded a lot better than hearing people argue over what to watch. 

They were all adults but being treated like a child did something to you. It was like they were trapped in teenage years forever. Rebelling against the staff instead of their parents. 

They talked as they hunted the pieces in the pile. They split it between them. The conversation ranged from the schedule to memories of their life on the outsides. Brock speculated on if Jasper would move up night meds again. 

“I think they like it when we’re all sleeping.” 

“Do you blame them?” 

Brock didn’t. He knew they must have been a handful, days like today when everyone was doing well, were rare and probably celebrated by the staff. No emergency shots of Haldol for Brock, no 24 watch for Natasha or Wanda, Phil hadn’t been forced to restrain Clint yet (as far as they knew), Bucky looked steady and Steve hadn’t worried about the assassins or acknowledged voices. A nice easy day that was well deserved -- assuming it lasted. There were plenty of false startings. 

“Brock.” 

It was Maria. He sighed and got his feet. “Be back.” 

“I’ll be here.” 

Maria took his vitals and then gave him a cup of offensive warm water and a paper ramekin full of pills. He wasn’t sure what they were called. They varied week by week so he didn’t bother to learn their names. He tossed them back, washed them with a grimace. “All set. Want to send Jack to me?” 

“Sure.” 

Jack was already getting up when Brock walked in. He settled in the chair and stared out the window. Some days he felt like he was in jail. Bars and locked doors surrounded him on all sides. Basic things he’d taken for granted were now out of reach. The only time he felt the sun on his skin was when they visited the ‘courtyard’. It was tough to schedule and abrupt when they offered it. Brock was always interested. It couldn’t hardly be called ‘going outside’. It was a small square of concrete surrounded by tall dark fencing. The sunlight he felt came slotting through those bars. It took away any semblance of freedom. There was a good side to it. The bars on the right boarded a much bigger area, one with trees, a gazebo and a bench. That was a low risk ward. They were friendly however and whenever possible they talked through the bars. Thor, a hulking though friendly man often played basketball while Tony, a small sulking man, exchanged conversation with Clint about how awful the place was. His one-on-one, a pretty red haired woman whose name Brock didn’t know, conversed with Phil. 

Well he started to. Clint usually pelted him with tiny little rocks he found in the soil. Brock found their dynamic interesting. Clint’s antics were worse when his attention was elsewhere, regardless of who it was. Phil would sigh heavily in response and turn his attention back to his ward. He was far stronger than he looked and he always dressed as if he was off to an office instead of spending his day on a locked floor. 

“Hey.” His line of thoughts went array as he looked up at Jack. “Get anything done?” 

“No.” 

“Well, what’s your use then?” he slid down and started to pick through his pile. Brock copied his action. “Are you going out to garden today?” 

“They posted the schedule?” 

“Bruce was writing when I got vitals. Oh, they put on menus too.” 

Menus were single-handedly the biggest event on ward. Except for when Clint went boneless while being restrained. “Want to get to it before everyone else does?” 

Jack sighed laboriously, as he always did when food was involved. There was a touch of fear in his eyes. Brock couldn’t imagine how it must feel, having to literally pick your poison. All food was to be feared. All Brock could do was reach across the table and give his hand a squeeze. He held on a moment before letting go and getting to his feet. Jack sighed heavily again and got his feet making sure to take as long as physically possible. The walk was just as slow but Brock wasn’t annoyed. He knew this was hard on Jack. He couldn’t mediate it any better than Brock could his mania. Except Jack didn’t get absolved of his disorder with a shot and some Ativan. Maria was still in the med room, the top of it opened wide while she punched what was given out. She turned to smile at them though. 

Not all the nurses were particularly kind, treating them like inmates rather than patients. Putting on shitty movies meant for the children’s ward and making it a ‘mandatory activity’. Mandatory was a loose phrase but they kept track on who did what in order to see who got privileges each week. Brock was well versed in privileges. When he was manic it was an automatic loss and, when he was headstrong and cocky, untouchable. He didn’t remember them of course, at times he got glimpses of memory that left incredibly embarrassed about his behavior but Jack never treated him differently. They made it to the wall beside the nurses’ station. A big white board was mounted there and taped up beside it the menu for the day and tomorrow’s breakfast. Next to it there was the sign up sheet and on the lip of the wall there was a collection of the things Brock hated most about this place. 

Flexi-pens, referred to as safety pens by everyone in the ward. They were tiny, a few inches long, with a flexible rubber coating, and a tube of non-toxic ink inside. Brock had begged and pleaded for a normal pen and only once had an orderly allowed him to borrow it to scrawl down a book request before he forgot. It was impossible to write with them, too flimsy and small to get enough control. His already bad handwriting was made abysmal. Thankfully he had Jack who had long fingers that gave him enough control to make it legible. 

“Chicken tenders,” Brock said, looking over his shoulder to Jack. He looked troubled as he did when it came to meal time. Brock wondered what he’d look like if he was drowning in his clothes, too thin for his height. “You liked those last time.” 

He picked at the seam of his gray sweatshirt. “Okay.” 

Okay was good. It was better than ‘I guess’ but not as good as ‘alright’. It was workable however. Brock wasn’t sure when he took on Jack’s care. It was reciprocated when Brock had an episode of course. They were a team, a dynamic duo, two peas in a pod. They settled on chicken tenders for lunch, baked ziti for dinner, and pancakes for the morning. Each item would be bland and tasteless (except the chicken tenders, those were great). Jack was outwardly relieved it was done with and walked back into the dining room to see Clint raging over the puzzle. 

“I did this. It was mine!” 

“Clint,” Phil said. “Deep breaths.” 

“It was mine,” he snarled and Jack held his hands up. 

“It was my fault, sorry. We won’t touch it again.” 

Clint was still glowering though he stopped shouting. Phil put a hand on his shoulder. “Lets go to the Comfort Room. You can sit in the swing for a bit.” 

Clint perked up at that and Phil led him out. Brock didn’t blame him. It had a hammock swing and low lighting. Everything was soft and calming. He spent ample time there during episodes when he got agitated. There were Welch’s gummies and that was the biggest highlight of the experience. Treats were exceptionally rare; the closest they usually got was using them things like Skittles in group activities. On holidays they got to play candy bingo. It was all that they could really hope for. The Institution gave little ‘gift bags’. It was usually a pair of sweatpants with their logo stitched up on it, pillow mints and a single Hershey chocolate bar. It wasn’t like visitors could bring gifts in -- they couldn’t even wear a bra on the floor because of the underwire. Brock thought he'd get used to it, time spent with friends on the outside so long ago. But still every Easter with tough ham, every Thanksgiving with cold cuts warmed and drenched in goopy gravy or Christmas with its salisbury steaks, he was reminded he was locked away. He would linger around the plexiglass cube where a little table top fake tree was set up. It made him think about his childhood Christmas, the smell of pine needles and a fresh baked gingerbread his nonna had. Back before he showed any symptoms of his illness. He remembered working, returning to his apartment and having a beer. Brock was normal once. And god did he wish he still wasl. 

Not that he hadn’t met great people. Sure, most of them he’d avoid on the street before now, but being stuck together made the heart grow fond. 

“Book nook or TV room?” 

Brock could hear the sound of the Wii already and he knew that Natasha would be competing on Mario Kart with Steve and Wanda while Bucky sat at the table with whatever book he was reading. They had lobbied for games geared towards adults but they flat out refused. The ward made the best of it. Jack was lousy at it despite long hours spent trying to improve it. Brock was decent. He could beat Steve but not Wanda or Natasha. 

“I don’t care.” 

Jack headed towards the second door way that opened to the hallway where offices were set up for Skype appointments. Brock hadn’t seen an in-personal psychiatrist or counselor since he arrived in the ward just over a year ago. Brock wondered if they considered them not worth the bother or if it was sheer case loads that caused it. He asked the nurses but he got flighty answers in response. His caseworker popped up at odd times, more of a friendly check-in than giving any real information on when, if ever, he could get out of there. ‘When you’re ready’, was the answer given. Brock had long since stopped putting hope in him getting out of here. 

But Jack made it okay. At first he’d avoided the new guy. He had been drowning in the blue scrubs they made you wear while they went through your clothes. He and Natasha had made bets on why he was there, wagering on the new Dean Koontz novel. Brock thought it was agoraphobia, Natasha thought it was schizophrenia on the account of him muttering under his breath during his pacing. They were both wrong, obviously, and Natasha claimed herself winner even though Brock’s answer was closest. 

The patient phone was bolted to the wall in a tiny cubby that Brock could hardly reach. The cord was incredibly short and it was generally uncomfortable to use. How Steve managed to get in there to call his mom every day was beyond him. Brock owed his nonna a call before the week was up. Bucky wasn’t in the TV room. He was idling by the nurse’s station, looking at a bunch of origami animals Wanda had done last week. He reached out and tapped the tail of a chicken to make it peck. 

“Hey,” Brock said. 

The man turned to look at him. He had shoulder length chestnut hair, blue-gray eyes and a smile of the man who’d seen Hell. “Hi.” 

“Not up for Mario Kart?” 

“It’s a little too noisy.” 

Brock nodded his head sympathetically. 

“I finished the Nora Roberts if you want it.” Jack offered. 

Brucky perked up at that. “Already?” 

“I read when I can’t sleep.” 

“Don’t let the nurses hear you saying that. You’ll find a new pill in the cup tonight.” 

It was said teasingly but it was a very real concern. While Jack and Bucky went to their room to fetch it Brock made the chicken peck a few times. It had been the Creative Activity of the day. The instructor gave vague instructions before checking her cell phone. Brock missed his cellphone a lot in the beginning but as he had long since adjusted. There was a laptop for patient use but you had to sit on a bench to use it. Wanda and Natasha would crowd around it at night to watch beauty vloggers and catch up on the music happenings. There was music most days. They had Sirius channels and they varied the channels to appeal to everyone. Soothing jazz, k pop, hip hop, alternative and country. Plus a day of talk radio for Bucky. Brock didn’t mind that, it was nice to get an update on the outside world. 

Jack came back alone, Bucky must have gone to his room or the nook. They went into the TV room and, as Bucky said, it was noisy. The TV was up loud from watching Friends reruns the prior night -- a nurse had to unlock the plexiglass cube the TV and Wii were in to adjust the volume and it was very low on their list of priorities. There was a L-shaped ‘couch’ which was really a narrow booth with squished down maroon cushions. There were weighed down chairs directly opposite, one wide enough for two people to sit in. Usually it was Bucky and Steve who crammed in together when they played Mario Party. Steve was there alone, currently in fifth place. Brock imagined it was difficult handling the remote with such large hands. Nat and Wanda had an unfair advantage when it came to small fingers that could hit the buttons to discharge power-ups and such. It was Bowser’s Castle, a level that Brock hated just slightly less than Rainbow Road. They sat on the couch, chatting with each other. It was the same conversation, just with different words. Brock asked what Jack was looking forward to (Self Confidence, they got to compliment each other and it was always fun to hear Clint lob two sided compliments at Phil).

They spent the morning there. Wanda left briefly to Skype with her psychologist and returned teary eyed. No one addressed it, Natasha just holding out the controller while she exited out of the game she was playing with Steve. Clint came in and they ended the game to max the game out to four players (they only had four controllers). Phil took a seat at the circular table by the white board where Wanda liked to draw flowers and cartoon dogs. Clint left it alone, he liked the dogs. Natasha won nearly all matches until Steve took them all by surprise as he bumbled his way to second, edging out Wanda. Clint got frustrated and Phil suggested they work on the puzzle. Clint shot a glare in Brock’s direction and agreed. 

They were almost at the end and Natasha’s pouting convinced Brock into playing. He came in last, exactly as expected, but it was easy to shrug it off. Lunch was approaching and Jack got twitchy. He went to sit with him, trying to distract him by asking about his cat, which now resided with his mother. He got updates every other day. Brock was fairly certain the overweight tabby was what kept him going. His wall was covered in polaroids of her. Some of them were taken with Jack, from before he was admitted there, and others were taken with a kind looking woman, smiling wide and warm, eyes the same green as her son’s. Brock’s side was a bit bare in comparison. Cards his nonna sent him were taped here and there. At night, under a medicated doze, he would close his eyes and imagine himself in those scenes. In building snowmen or seeing a beagle in a santa hat. It was silly but it kept his mind occupied. It was easy to spiral deep in a place like this, he clung to whatever kept him from the hitting rock bottom. He liked to think he was grappling with that rope, dragging himself up out of the dark. 

They had Self Confidence before lunch came. Brock had opted for a ham sandwich and so had Jack. He was staring down at it, skin ashy and eyes wide and petrified. Brock gave him his orange (it had a protective covering, Jack could handle that). He passed over his peanut butter crackers and cut his sandwich in half with a spoon when the nurse stepped out of the room. They weren’t allowed knives. He did an ‘examination’, which was really him pretending to check each crevice for any potential hazards. 

“It’s okay,” Brock said with a nod of his head. 

“It is?” he asked hoarsely. “You-you checked the meat?” 

“Of course I did. I checked it right after the bread.” 

“And-and the,” he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Vegetables?” 

“They’re safe. I checked them twice.” 

Jack’s shoulders dropped and he exhaled heavily. “Okay.”

He picked up the first half of the sandwich with long slender fingers and closed his eyes tightly as he took a bite. He chewed a few times and the tension he’d gathered was released once more. 

“See?” 

“It’s safe,” Jack agreed. “Thank you.” 

Brock pulled open the back of crackers. “No problem.” 

The afternoon CBT session felt ages too long. Natasha walked out halfway through and not long after Wanda joined her. Clint was still working on his puzzle and most definitely not listening. His one-on-one wasn’t going to risk triggering Clint into a rage by suggesting he work on the worksheet instead of the puzzle. Bucky always paid rigorous attention and Steve mirrored that. Brock was bored out of his mind but he wasn’t going to leave Wanda to suffer alone. So he grabbed a notebook from the center table. It was Clint’s judging by the amount of dicks drawn in it’s pages. Brock worked quickly tearing out a clear page. Today he wasn’t looking to share. 

He wasn’t always this way. It was one of the bad days that they all had. Usually he was funny and easy going with a very obvious crush on Natasha that Brock had a good feeling was reciprocated. But Brock wasn’t one to talk about crushes, he thought sneaking a look at Jack. They were friends though and Brock wasn’t going to risk that. He started his letter to nonna, struggling with the Flexi-pen even after all these years. The trick was to pull the pen out of the rubber outside and flip it around so the end of the pen poked through the firm bottom where the plastic tube came together. It gave a bit more leverage and steadied the tip a bit more. Brock hated writing to his nonna because he never had anything to say. She always asked about his workshops, about his friends and what he was doing. 

She was his power of attorney so she knew how things were going with his treatment. She wanted to know how he was. There were only so many ways he could write that he was bored so he settled for talking about the activities. How he’d beaten Jack at Connect Four three times. That he’d managed to come in third when playing Mario Kart. That Natasha cheated at Life, and that he’d requested a Dean Koontz novel. It was only half a page long and Brock frowned. He took a deep breath and tried to make a case for coming home. He knew what she would say, he knew it was a waste of ink and time, but he had to try. 

The workshop wrapped up while Brock was writing and he didn’t realize it’d ended until Jack said, “Writing to nonna?” 

He looked up and saw the therapist wiping down the whiteboard from the notes she’d made that she knew no one would be copying down. “Yeah, I owe her a letter.” 

Jack sat back in the chair. “Tell her I say hi?” 

“Will do.” 

Jack waited for him to finish his letter and followed him up to the nurses station to request it get mailed out. Shift change had happened and now it was Jasper. He had his days when he could be a prick but usually he was decent. “Letter?”

“Yup.” 

“I’ll get it sent out. Hold on,” he rolled back in his chair to the white binder where contacts were kept. “Giada Rumlow?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I have to do checks but I’ll get it out afterwards. Matter of fact, while I’ve got you here.” He grabbed the clipboard and checked besides both their names. “It’s always handy that you two stick together. Never have to worry about tracking down both of you.” 

He got up and began to make his rounds, starting in the TV room. Jack leaned against the wall. “What now?” 

“Connect Four?” 

“Sure.” 

** ** ** ** 

Brock poured a packet of sugar over the plastic dish of cantaloupe. It was underripe, as expected, so he learned that adding sugar balanced it out. The others had picked up the habit. Brock had finished looking over Jack’s tray and traded his cantaloupe for his bag of baked Lays chips. Jack liked chips. The fact the potatoes had been treated with preservatives absolved him of his fears. 

“What day is it?” Wanda asked, her quiet voice drifting through the chatter of Clint, Bucky and Steve. 

“I think it’s Wednesday.” 

“No it’s Thursday.” Steve said though he didn’t look certain.

“Phil would know,” Clint said. 

“It’s Thursday,” he confirmed. 

Time passed by strangely in the hospital. Sometimes it seemed to suspend, impossibly slow. Other days Brock would sit down to play a round of solitaire and three hours passed him by. It was like this place was its own world, nestled between space and time with it’s own rotations. Days didn’t matter, dates were dismissable, and time was rarely linear. They had internal clocks for coffee opening and shutting, meal times, and waking times. 

“My spider is sharing its web with another spider,” Natasha announced sounding pleased.

The spider had lived in the window of Wanda and Natasha’s window for ages now. She fell asleep watching it gather it’s prey every night through the grate. “I don’t know if it’s going to survive.” Clint replied. 

Natasha’s spider was, per both Wanda and Natasha, very large. She had convinced Phil to go and look at it (which he did with a nurse) and google to see what it really was. She had tried on the laptop but hadn’t had much luck. Phil managed to identify it as a black and yellow garden spider. He showed photos and Brock shuddered. He wasn’t a fan of creatures with more than four legs. 

“They’ll be friends,” Natasha said with certainty. “I know it.” 

“I hope so.” 

Jack was reading and Brock leaned against him with a bored sigh. “My book is taking ages.” 

“Do you want to read mine?” 

“Nah.” 

They’d tried before but Jack read way faster than him and Brock felt bad slowing him down. “Is Lucky coming soon?” Wanda asked. 

Lucky was a yellow therapy lab. He came to the ward monthly for two hours. He wandered around the floor and spent a little time with everyone. He liked Clint best though, attaching himself to his hip. “I can check,” Phil said. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Clint said, dragging out the ‘i’ in fine. “You know I wouldn’t die without you, Phil.” 

“I’m just asking.” 

Brock had to admire his patience. Despite everything they went through and how abusive Clint could be, he still was fond of the man and showed endless patience. Clint sighed heavily with an eyeroll and got back to embellishing how his life was before he was there. Everyone embellished a little, it was only natural to make things more interesting. The only one who didn’t was Jack. He never felt like he had something to prove. Brock liked that about him. In fact, Brock liked a lot of things about him. Brock speared a candied cantaloupe chunk and chewed it slowly. He didn’t want to finish eating, he’d just be bored all over again. He didn’t think the girls would give up the Wii so early and Steve tended to side with them. It wasn’t worth kicking up a fuss about. Come tonight they would switch back to cable so the girls could catch up on Law and Order: SVU. Jack and Brock usually joined them for that. Night meds would happen next and the girls usually went to their room to read or what have you. Brock, Bucky, Steve and Jack would go to watch TV. No one was particularly assertive on what to watch so they settled for evening talk shows until the meds started to kick in for Bucky and Steve. The trazodone drowsiness was one that could be fought easily and they turned it onto American Pickers. 

American Pickers was the highlight of Brock’s day. He and Jack crammed together in the chair made for two people much smaller than the two of them. He liked to be close to Jack. They all used the exact toiletries, handed out by the orderlies. But it seemed to smell sweeter on Jack’s skin. Same with the detergent. It was just...better. Dinner was made up of a chicken that had to be cut with a spoon. It was overcooked and dry but Brock still dawdled on it. Jack didn’t mind when food was horribly overcooked, it soothed him. No bacteria could live being cooked for so long. For that reason he couldn’t complain. 

Brock wondered if they would have met in the real world. If Brock would have noticed the quiet man who was too skinny and skittish. No, no he wouldn’t have because in a crowd he would have been lost. When Brock got too depressed he reminded himself that he was alone. He had Jack and as long as he had him, they would be okay. Brock ate Jack’s watermelon and Jack ate Brock’s tapioca pudding. He’d never stop being disgusted by tapioca pudding and he didn’t understand how, or why, Jack liked it so much. Dinner wrapped up and with it the TV was switched off the Wii. It was a rerun episode of SVU so they watched Golden Girls instead. 

Brock’s book arrived so he left the TV room to start reading it. Jack followed with his own book. They read in their room for a bit. He didn’t notice the fifteen minute checks and was only interrupted by Jasper telling him that it was med time. Brock tossed back his cocktail of lithium, olanzapine and trazodone. Jack’s day meds were heavier than his night meds. He was done eating for the day so he didn’t need any benzos to carry him through breakfast. He was just dosed with something to make falling asleep easier. Brock had finally adjusted to the thin mattress on the hard plastic bed bolted to the wall. 

Phil had left shortly after dinner so Clint was free to roam. He had settled with his puzzle and when he caught sight to them, apologized. “I’ve just been working on it for a while, y’know? I had the piles where I needed them and you guys moved it.” 

“We shouldn’t have touched it,” Jack said. “We’re sorry.” 

“Hey,” Clint perked up from his somber apologetic mood. “Want to help?” 

It wasn’t like they had anywhere better to be. 

“Sure.” 

** ** ** ** 

“What’s the point of showing the pickers things you don’t want to sell?” Brock asked. 

“Probably just for showing off. The whole, ‘I have this and you can’t have it’.” 

“Assholes.” 

Jack hummed in agreement. Brock was curled up against Jack, as he usually was. He wasn’t sure when he started this or the first time Jack put his arm around him. But now it felt natural, as if it had always been that way. A Burger King commercial rolled, teasing them with yet another thing they couldn’t have and Brock looked up at Jack. His facial features glowed in the light. The little scar on his chin, the hard lines of his jaw, his cheekbones. Brock felt warm and sleepy. Jack looked down at him and Brock didn’t look away. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. I just… I like looking at you.” 

Jack smiled and so did Brock. “I’m not much to look at.” 

“Yes you are.” 

“Really?” 

“Mmhm.” 

The show came back on and the moment was suspended until the next commercial break. But this time when Brock looked up Jack was already looking at him. “What?” Brock asked nervously. 

“Nothing. I just like looking at you.” 

Brock licked his lips. “Really?” 

Jack leaned down and carefully, slowly pressed their lips together. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” Jasper said, making them both jump. He had the checks clipboard in hand. “If you like rooming together it’s best you do a better job of hiding that.” 

“Sorry,” Jack said, cheeks blazing red. 

Brock was on cloud nine. It felt like he was on a manic high but he knew he wasn’t. This was just the effect Jack had on him. Jasper hummed and left to continue his rounds. Jack kissed him again, this time much fiercer. It had been a long time Brock had been kissed and he knew he was out of practice. But Jack was clumsy too. They parted not long after it started and for a minute the only sound was Mike bartering over an antique tricycle. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Jack admitted. 

Brock smiled. “Me too.” 

It was strange. This changed everything and nothing all at once. Their moments together would be stolen in fifteen minutes increments. There was no privacy to hide. It was like ‘dating’ back in school days where all you got was handholding (which they certainly couldn’t do) and kisses in front of the school bus. It felt juvenile even thought they were both fully grown men. But it was better than nothing. It was a small graduation of their relationship and nothing more than that. Not while they were here at least. Maybe one day they would be free. Would look at apartments and go to bars together. Brock could examine Jack’s food and Jack would watch out for Brock when he had an episode. 

It may have been more of a fantasy than a potential future but he was free to dream. And for now he had Jack. Hopefully that would remain. 

That night Brock laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to stay awake. Jack’s breathes had evened out but Brock didn’t want this night to end. He wanted to commit the night to memory, to never forget what it felt like to kiss Jack. What it felt like to be kissed by Jack. It was a losing battle as his eyelids grew heavily but it wasn’t in vain; he wouldn’t forget. 

** ** ** **

They were friends first and lovers second. 

Jack woke up before him. Brock remained in bed, dazed and disoriented while the meds wore off. He stared at his empty bed and reminisced about the night prior. Had he dreamed it? Had it truly happened? His crush had always been just that, a crush. Jack and him were close, had been shortly after he was assigned to his room. Overthinking cleared his mind in record time and he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He stared at the photograph of Jack with his mother. She looked so small next to him but the love in her eyes was bright and real. When Brock saw them he always wanted to ask nonna to send him photos to hang up but he was afraid of getting comfortable. When someone got comfortable leaving seemed even further away than it did previously. Brock didn’t want to be that someone. Jack was one of those someones though. Before he came here his fears had left him living off of Nature Valley crunchy granola bars, the only thing he deemed safe. It had left him underweight and malnourished and on the brink of death. He had tried a short inpatient but clearly it hadn’t worked so here he was in a long term ward. It had done the trick, his fears now reduced to perishable foods such as produce. Produce was his biggest fear and Brock took it upon himself to relieve that fear. Because they were friends and that was what friends did. 

Unless they were now more than friends. 

No, that was stupid. There was no ‘more than friends’ under close supervision. All that could come of it was Jack being reassigned to another room and an orderly hovering over them when they were together. Jasper may have caught them but Brock knew him well enough that he knew he wouldn’t air their secret. He would deny knowing about it, should they get caught, but he wouldn’t bring it up. Jasper was one of the nurses he could trust. Maria and him. Everyone else was wishy washy and he could depend on them for nothing more than meds. He threw on a fresh tee and a new pair of sweats and slipped his feet into the canvas shoes they provided. They stuck to the floor making an unpleasant sound when the tread peeled off the linoleum. Before it made Brock wince, now he was used to it. 

The coffee guy had come and gone. Brock had lost more time than he had foreseen deep in thought. The sun was up and Jack was staring at the lake with his long fingers wrapped around the little styrofoam cup. Brock’s mouth went dry and he suddenly forgot how to act. There was always the chance he’d dreamt it up, a chance that it never happened. “Hey,” Jack said, eyes still on the water. “Coffee came if you want a cup.” 

Usually Brock wasn’t one for coffee but it felt right today. He padded over the counter, shoes making the queasy ‘shtk, shtk’ on the floor. He set it down and soon it was full of cheap, hot coffee. Three quarters of the sugar was gone, two of those undoubtedly Clint. Brock grabbed two packets and three creamer pods before sitting at the table by Jack. His tongue felt swollen, like he couldn’t have spoken even if he knew what to say. No one said a word but it wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest which bewildered Brock further. He’d expected tension, a distance maybe. But this wasn’t the real world. This was a bubble in space and time where normal social rules didn’t imply. Brock wished they had wooden sticks to stir it with. He swirled around the cup gently trying to blend the creamer in. It took a good few minutes but it finally took on an even light brown color and he took a sip. It was bitter and too hot. Exactly as it always was. 

“There’s no group this morning again,” Jack told him, eyes still forward. “Want to color?” 

Never in Brock’s life did he expect a grown man to ask him something like that, much less him agreeing. Jack finally looked at him, his expression the same as always. Maybe Brock really had dreamt it all up. They poured over the coloring books for something an orderly would photocopy for them. Jack chose a flamingo. Brock picked a horse. They milled by the nurses station while they waited. Natasha passed by, hair wet from her shower, pausing by them as she waited for the orderly to finish up so she could use the washer. 

With their coloring sheets fresh off the copier they went back to the table. Brock had his weekly appointment with the psychiatrist in the afternoon and he’d grown indifferent about it. He used to get excited, reciting lines to use to convince Dr. Banner that he was ready. It didn’t matter what he said when he couldn’t back it up. Every time he had an episode the further that release date was; sometimes it felt he really was in jail and Banner was the warden. 

Brock tried not to think like that, it was a sure way to end up miserable and depressed. They got out the felt tipped markers. They were awful, bleeding color beyond the lines and it was impossible to do any fine detailing. Their color pencils had been bogarted by Steve for his sketching leaving the rest of the patients to suffer. Brock tried not to be too bitter. He was doing real art after all, everyone else was just passing time. Still, it would have been nice to have something that could proudly be shown instead of piling up in the middle of the table until the cleaner came and threw them all into the recycling bin. They didn’t have an actual bin on the floor, and their trash can was rubber and locked with a tiny hole to push trash into. 

“You’re awfully quiet.” 

“Guesso,” Brock swallowed dryly. “How’s it going?” 

Jack sighed and held his own paper up, scrutinizing it in the light. “A real piece of art here. It’ll go down in history, I’ll tell you. It’ll be an auction and rack up to the millions.” 

Brock laughed and from there it was easy. Conversation flowed between them like it had never stopped and Brock somehow managed to stay in the lines though the yellow of the horse’s body bled into the the black of the hooves. Still, Brock was satisfied with it. 

Checks came around and Brock hardly noticed, keying into what he’d missed this morning. Wanda was having a tough day. When she spilled her tea she cried and went to her room. She hadn’t come out for breakfast and Nat was giving her space. Brock felt for her. He had periods of manic depression as well and he knew what it was like to have no will, no energy to get up from bed much less dragging through a full day around others. At least here she was safe. There wouldn’t be any rash decisions like buying a gun or taking a bottle of pills because life was no longer worth the torture. They discarded their drawings and retreated to the book nook. They read until lunch, Brock leaning against Jack automatically as he tucked his feet up onto the cushioned L-shaped bench connected to the wall. Jack didn’t make any move about it and Brock solidified that it had been a dream. A wonderful, wonderful dream. 

Lunch was stiff wheat spaghetti with canned sauce that had a metallic taste left over from the can it’d come from. Before Jack would have refused to eat, concerned about botulism. But now he deemed canned food safe because it was so heavily treated. Progress if Brock had ever seen it. In fact Jack liked every part of the meal, save for the bowl of sliced peaches that he quickly pushed off to Brock as if it being in the vicinity of him would sicken him. Jack even finished his plate which made Brock’s heart swell in happiness. Who would have thought Brock would get so much pleasure watching a man eat. 

Who would have thought Brock would find someone like Jack. 

After lunch Brock went in for his meeting. It was mostly one sided conversation, a medical student sitting in making notes. He asked about his mood, his ups and downs and Brock assured him he felt stable. That seemed to satisfy him and for a second Brock let his hopes get up but that was until he turned the nurses’ notes and commented on him sleeping in later than usual and he expressed concern that he was in danger of becoming manic as sleep was his sign which, while true, frustrated Brock to no end. He was put on a low dose risperidone and sent on his way. Frustrated Brock hid out in their room, staring at moments in Jack’s life as he seethed. Jack found him not long after. He didn’t say a word, just sat on his bed and cracked open his book. 

“They’re never going to let me out of this shithole are they?” Brock finally asked when he was certain his voice wouldn’t break. It was easier to be mad than to address the fact that his life was in shambles and he had absolutely no control of anything. 

“One day,” Jack assured him as he always did. “They can’t keep us here forever.” 

“Nat’s been here for two years now. Two years, Jack. I’ve been here for over a year.” 

“I’m almost at a year,” Jack pointed out. “They just… They think they know best. They don’t understand things like we do.” 

“That’s why we’re the crazy ones. The ones a danger to ourselves and others.” 

“Maybe.” Jack didn’t romanticize the truth for Brock. He wasn’t one to tell him what he wanted to hear to placate him. 

“I feel like I’m being punished for something that’s not my fault.” Brock wasn’t one to vent, but right now he really wanted to. “One moment. One thing has ruined my entire fucking life and they keep reminding me of it.” 

“You had a gun,” Jack said softly. 

“You think I don’t know that?” Brock couldn’t remember it as well as he should have but that was the effect mania had, erasing the memories of what you’d done. He remembered being in the back of the police car, time hop, a hospital, time jump, a short stay inpatient before he was transferred. “They love reminding me.” 

“Everyone here hit rock bottom at one point.” Jack said calmly, green eyes fixed on him, a strand of black hair falling into his eyes. “I passed out at work. Rock bottom.” 

Brock blew out a breath. He would have preferred that versus flaming out. Maybe Jack had a point. He was saving nonna stress by being here and that made it worth it, even if he had a hard time accepting it. He deflated, flopping down on his bed. Meeting with Banner always left him feeling helpless and it wasn’t a feeling he liked. He stared at the ceiling using the breathing techniques he’d learned in group. It worked, much to his dismay. Maybe it wasn’t all bullshit. 

Jack let him pout for a while before he dragged Brock out of his self loathing for a round of Connect Four. It was a good distraction but it was only that, a distraction. His reality was just as bleak as ever, a spiral into the void. They chatted with Steve and Bucky for a bit about nothing. Nothing was the only thing to talk about. No one wanted to rehash their past or what had landed them here. It was easy to imagine for some, like Natasha who had thick scars running vertically up her forearms with thinner ones crisscrossing her forearms or Bucky and his reaction to loud noises or anything that could remotely be mistaken for gunfire. Brock had been on the news but he wasn’t certain if they’d seen. He hoped they hadn’t. Not that there was any modesty in a place like this. Not with open showers and being accessed and accounted for every fifteen minutes. There was no liberty here, no freedom or will outside of the ward. 

“We can go to the courtyard today after dinner. Are you coming?” 

“Yeah.” 

Brock would never refuse to go outside and feel the sun on his skin, even if it was sinking. After consuming what was chicken and gravy (dried out breasts that were difficult to cut with the spoon, and a congealed brown goop on top) he got into line behind Jack. It felt ridiculous to stand in a single file line like they were elementary students heading to a field trip. It felt like a field trip however. Everyone but Wanda was going and Brock felt bad for her all over again. He was sure she’d hate that, he certainly would hate people pitying him, but he couldn’t help it.

Two orderlies came with them. Brock never knew their names. They rotated through all the wards in the institution so they were randomly circulated in and out. They piled into an ancient elevator that seemed like it shouldn’t hold the weight of so many adults, especially a hulking man like Steve, but it did. It shuttered it’s way down to the proper floor, the orderly using a key to open the door. They all piled out and were met by another door that needed to be unlocked and then through an abandoned cafeteria from before the wards got locked. A vending machine sat there, taunting them. Brock would have killed for a Coke. The institution didn’t allow outside food or drinks so even when nonna visited she couldn’t give him anything but clothing. She always brought him sweaters because he complained once about how cold the ward was. 

Another door was unlocked and they were in the game room. There was a ping pong table and air hockey which, shockingly, actually worked. The orderly propped open the door so there was an option but everyone opted for going outside. It was square, thick, black wrought iron bars jutted around them, curling at the top as a future deterrent for those thinking of escaping. Once upon a time, Jack could have fit between but now he’d put on enough weight to look healthy and with that he lost his chance of escape. Natasha sat cross legged on the grass, eyes shut, head back just basking in the first sunlight they’d felt in almost two weeks. 

There was a bigger courtyard to the left, the bars separating them. It had a gazebo and even a tree. There were patients out there, playing basketball or roaming the area. Brock wished they had the big courtyard but the smaller one was better than none. Clint had a basketball and throwing hoops while Phil overlooked, chatting with an orderly about kayaking. Brock wished he could go kayaking. He wished he could get in the water in general. Staring at lake day in and day out made the urge to swim powerful. 

There was a pool but it was reserved only for the children’s ward and that felt cruel in Brock’s opinion. Bucky and Steve claimed the bench so Jack and Brock sat on the grass with Natasha. “Hey boys,” she said, eyes still shut. “How goes it?” 

“It goes.” Brock replied. 

She grunted. Outside time wasn’t really for talking. It was sacred, a time when they could turn inwards and get natural vitamin D and not the stuff that was slipped into their food. Natural. Warm. Comforting. Brock leaned against the bars and sighed loudly. Jack mirrored the movement but none of the theatrics. 

Side by side they stared at the cerulean sky, wispy clouds floating lazily through it. Brock wondered what it would be like to float. To rise high above this fortress of a building, above the world that rejected him and cast him away. But up there, he still wouldn’t be able to escape the problem. It was him. It was his illness. It was something that was so well a part of him that it defined him. Wilson could talk about how they were more than their sickness until he was blue in the face and Brock wouldn’t be swayed. If it didn’t define him, then why was it enough to have him confined? 

Still, he wondered what it would be like to float. 

Their half an hour ran up quickly -- sometimes Brock suspected the orderlies got tired of standing around and called it early. But no one had a watch they could wear so they had to rely on them. Jack stood and offered a hand. Brock accepted and got to his feet. They all clumped inside, Clint complaining loudly about having to go back inside. Brock wanted to agree with him but that just fed into it and complaining would escalate to yelling. He kept his mouth shut and progressed through a series of barriers broken only by a key. It was just as depressing as ever to go back to the floor. Brock went to get some enhanced water and found Wanda folding origami. It was nice to see her out of her room so soon. He got the cup and then sat opposite of her. She was young, no more than twenty three though he hadn’t asked her age, it seemed rude. She had red hair, like Natasha’s, though hers was darker.

“Hi Brock.” 

“Hey Wanda. Doing okay?” 

She looked up with a crooked smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “As good as I can.” 

Brock smiled back. “That’s good. What are you making? Another chicken?” 

“No, a lizard.” 

That made sense with the green paper. She was the only one who used it and even Clint seemed to respect not touching her neat pile in the window sill. Jack found his way in with a book and Steve sat at the table at the other end with his sketching. Bucky wasn’t anywhere to be seen, neither was Clint or Natasha. Chances were they were in the TV room. There were only so many places someone could be. It was hard not to be on top of each other. The ward rewrote social rules of the outside world. Just because someone was in the same room did not constitute a conversation. Not even if the person was sitting directly beside another. Brock often pondered when, if ever, he was free how hard it would be to adapt. The idea of freedom was enticing but, as Brock had trouble admitting, it was terrifying too. He left Wanda to her work and went back to his room to read his book. 

He got distracted however and found himself looking at Jack’s wall. There was no telling when Brock’s crush manifested itself but it had and now he was fantasizing about him when asleep too. Was there even a chance he felt the same way? Was there a chance that, should he find out, he’d turn him away and end their friendship? Was there a point to saying anything when there was no way of anything coming from it except trouble? 

It seemed some dreams weren’t meant to come true. 

Brock found himself wandering, walking circles around the floor. Past the nurses station, past the TV room and the phone cubby, through the doorway and into the dining room, passing the two tables, and turning before the drink fountain, passed the two bathrooms and the washing machine room opposite it and then right back to the nurses station. He wasn’t consciously doing so, he was just stuck in thought about Jack, lost in fantasies where the kiss was real. It had felt real. He could remember it in vivid detail even though the trazadone made it hard to remember anything. Jack was something special and didn’t he know it. 

“Do you need something?” one of the fill in nurses said, with a tight unfriendly smile. 

“No.” 

“Are you having some anxiety? I’ve noticed your pacing.” 

“I was just walking.” 

“Maybe focus your energy elsewhere.” 

Brock blew out a breath but gave a curt, “Okay.” and went to the TV room. The Wii wasn’t in use, Natasha watching The Middle with her legs tucked under her. Steve and Bucky were watching as well. Jack was still in the dining room reading, Wanda working on her origami while Clint worked on a puzzle with an orderly who acted as his night one-on-one. 

“Pop a squat,” Natashsa said without looking at him. 

Brock pulled a chair from the circular table and sat down. They watched until night meds and from there people began to disperse as they took effect. Jack found his way in and Brock switched to the History channel. Brock migrated to the loveseat and they watched Frank picking through rusted junk before coming across an antique trunk. Suddenly Jack’s lips were on his and Brock reeled away in shock eyes wide with disbelief -- it hadn’t been a dream. Jack looked equally startled and began to apologize but Brock cut him off. 

“It...it was real?” 

“Yes?” Jack looked hesitant. “Is it… Is it still okay? I won’t be upset with you if not -- ”

Jasper had really caught them. He had really kissed Jack. His felt woozy and the fuzziness from the trazadone just added to it. It’d been a long time since Brock got drunk but he felt buzzed. “It’s okay,” Brock stammered. “But we can’t -- they won’t let us…” 

“Who says they have to know? Sitwell said he wouldn’t tell,” Jack said with an earnestly that was strange for him. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for months.” 

“I feel the same,” Brock said, elated but also numb with disbelief. “I just… If they catch us…” 

“We won’t let them.” Mischief sparkled in Jack’s eyes. “I think we can get away with plenty of kisses in fifteen minutes, don’t you think?” 

Brock laughed in disbelief. “I think so.” 

“Then let’s give it a try,” Jack said. “If it doesn’t work that’s fine, we can still be friends. I just… I guess I haven’t felt this way about a person in a really long time.” 

Brock felt the same but instead of telling him that he kissed him, long and hard, before pulling back, that buzzed feeling crept through him. He smiled and he knew it probably looked dopey but he didn’t mind. “Let’s try it.”


End file.
